Agent of Destruction
by AngstyAly
Summary: Neal is taken, but to stop the questions and a persistent FBI agent with a reputation the only way to keep him is to fake his death. Now it's a race to find Neal and stop the crime he's being forced to commit. Not Slash, Not a death-fic. A bit'a'whump
1. Chapter 1

_**NOT A DEATH FIC!**_

_ Suicide is the best cover there is. People will convince themselves that they missed the signs. A suicide note creates more questions than answers. And everyone is too busy blaming themselves to take a look at who had motive. It's a perfect play, the only con worth performing twice._

It was a Tuesday, the day that Peter was called to June's house. Neal's anklet had been cut and Peter had picked up the warning as he was leaving the house. There was the old sigh and the familiar flutter of panic as he thought about what kind of trouble Caffrey had got himself into now. Maybe this was it, the day that the conman had decided to run. He said he would take care of it straight away.

It didn't stop him from grabbing June's offered coffee on the way up the stairs. He was too tired to play this game. If Caffrey had run, Peter could hardly do anything about it until he had caffeine in him. Both hadn't seen Neal since last night. The door was closed, as per usual, Peter knocked twice. There was no answer, so he just opened the door and walked in.

He wished he had prepared himself.

The tracking anklet that had brought him here was placed neatly on top of a thick cream envelope sitting beside an empty wineglass and a carefully creased origami bird whose base was starting to congeal to the table because of the blood. Because of all the blood.

The bird was the first thing to catch his eye, maybe because he was looking for it, or maybe because his mind was already trying to protect him from seeing the body slumped at the end of the table.

"Neal?"

The coffee cup slid out of his hand and hit the floor. He was reaching for his phone and stepping quickly around the chairs to where his friend was sitting. "Neal?" He checked for a pulse. It was routine, or maybe it was hope, because he knew that Neal was dead.

And there was a gun on the floor by Peter's knees, loaded, silenced, and as still as it's handler.

"He'd dead."

"We're sending an ambulance to your location, just stay on the phone, sir."

He dropped his phone onto the hardwood floor and sat back against the wall. There was blood on his hands, thick and dark. He slid his head back and blinked up at the ceiling, trying to control his nausea.

_Goddammit Neal. Goddamn you._

"Neal? Would you like some breakfast?" It was June, coming up the stairs.

_Pull yourself together, Peter._

"Don't come up here!" he called, struggling to his feet. His voice sounded hoarse in his ears. He had to stop her from seeing this... this...

He could hear her footsteps on the landing now, and he shut the door before she could reach it, "Don't come in here, June. I need you to go downstairs and wait for the police."

"The police- What's happened?" She asked, concern shivering her voice up an octave.

_Neal's dead._

"Please wait downstairs, they'll need you to open the door for them," He said unsteadily, leaning his weight against the door in case she tried to come in.

He could hear the hesitation in her breathing as she stood outside. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity she called through the door, "Alright, but call if you need me."

Peter listened to her go back down the stairs before turning back to survey the apartment. The place was cleaner than usual, everything dusted and set in it's place. The early morning sun was streaming in through the windows, polishing everything with a golden glow. How sadistic had Caffrey been?

The body was staring at him, that handsome face was as strong as ever, not slackened in death, but as resolute as it had been in life. There was a trickle of blood at the temple and the hair was unbecomingly matted with congealed blood, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

_Goddammit._

How could he have missed it, just last night they had finished a case. They had been fighting all day about some stupid con, and when Peter had apologized and congratulated Neal on the case, he had seen real pride in those damn eyes.

_Why couldn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me?_

Because he should have known. He was trained to recognize those signs, and he had missed them in a friend when that friend had needed him the most. The happiness yesterday might have been a warning sign, that Neal had decided one a course of action. That tie that Neal had given him for El's anniversary could have been a parting gift.

The envelope sat accusingly still. He couldn't touch it, not until the techs had come and investigated the entry wound, the gun residue, the wineglass and origami bird. After all, why couldn't it be murder?

The envelope could hold answers. There were three names written in Neal's flowing handwriting, _June, Mozzie, _and _Peter._

_**Ok so I think I should make this pretty clear: THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC. I hate death fics. But I do love some good Peter and Neal whump. I like a man that seems about to break down at any point. Anyway: This is my First WhiteCollar fic, so be sure to drop a review and flame me on everything from my characterization to punctuation... Also: This is not a dream... Because I hate realistic dream sequences.**_


	2. Chapter 2

It was Monday night when Neal was yanked out of bed with a gloved hand over his mouth. The bed slid away underneath him and he landed hard on the wooden floor.

"Easy Neal, we're here to help."

"He thrashed out with his legs and caught one of the men in the groin. He lurched sideways, scrambling for the door, but was blocked by yet another masked man. This man caught him by the arms and marched him back into the center of the apartment, ignoring his struggles. Neal might as well have been fighting with a brick wall.

There was man sitting at the table, obviously a leader. Neal flashed through the database of people he had pissed off, but even in the library of those names, this man was a stranger. That didn't mean that Neal hadn't pissed him off.

He was forced to sit opposite and held there by his shoulders. There were five men in total. The leader, three men dressed in black (one hunched over, cupping his genitals) and one more slouched in the corner, bonelessly sprawled against the cabinet. It was a man judging by the rather expensive suit, but the head was covered with a thick canvas bag.

When he had finished testing the strength of the block of muscle holding him down, he nodded to the body in the corner, "Is he dead?"

The leader answered, "No, he's just heavily sedated, it should wear off fairly quickly."

The voice was familiar, and Neal scrutinized his face again, looking for some clue to the man's identity. He had broad features that didn't quite fit his wiry frame and a short bear immaculately cut and sculpted. He should know this man. "What's going on? Who are you?"

"You don't remember me? Well I guess that's not so surprising, I've changed quite a lot since Paris."

Neal inhaled sharply, "Campbell?"

"First prize!"

Of course he knew Martin Campbell. This was a man who was hard to mess with. Paris had been a long time ago, but even with time clouding his memory this was certainly not the face of the man who had left Neal stranded with Interpol closing in on their base of operations. "What do you want?" He asked, looking around at the four other men. He would have to run as soon as possible.

"Is that any way to treat an old friend?"

"I could ask the same," Neal said evenly.

Campbell grinned, baring his teeth like a shark. "I see your point. I want to apologize for that, but we're here to help you Neal."

"How?"

The older man gestured around the apartment. "We're going to break you out of here. You want that anklet off? You want to get out of town? Start a fresh game? I'm here to play fairy godmother."

Neal rubbed the anklet against the chair leg to make sure it was still on. Maybe if he could trigger it surreptitiously, the FBI would get here before Campbell could trap him into anything.

"In return for what?" He asked, letting his eyes wander again to the man in the bag. He thought he saw the canvas twitch. Any sign of life was good. Whatever that man had done to crack Campbell, the punishment would not be light.

"A long con. The greatest one of our generation, perhaps in the history of our profession."

"But you need me."

"That does seem to be the catch," Martin said, hissing a breath between his teeth.

"Why?"

"Before we start on the details, I need to know if you're in."

He didn't hesitate. "No."

"What?" This seemed to catch Campbell off guard, he sat up straight and seemed to really look at Neal for the first time.

"The last time I worked with you, people died and I'm not going to go down that road again. I appreciate the offer-"

"You don't seem to understand Caffrey, maybe you have forgotten, but I'm Martin Campbell. You're coming with me whether you agree to it or not. I would rather you came quietly and If I have to kill to make that happen, I will. The lovely lady you rented this place from? She's sleeping downstairs, her granddaughter is watching TV in her bedroom. Now I know you know I can and will kill them," he leaned in close, his broad face inscrutable, "if you don't cooperate."

Neal would have stood if not for the painful pressure keeping him in his seat, "If you hurt them-"

"I don't bother with hurting," The man said slowly, reaching a hand to his side where Neal knew he would be keeping his revolver, a curiously old fashioned weapon for a man so obsessed with cutting edge technology. "Their deaths will be quick. I can at least promise you that."

And Neal knew he meant it.

"Fine. Fine. I'll come."

"Good. But first," Campbell pushed a sheaf of papers across the table, "You need to write your suicide note."

* * *

Peter stared at the origami bird. He had found himself doing that more and more now. A week later and it still hurt. El helped, she was there when he needed her and gone when he wanted to be alone. He was sitting on the couch now with a beer and Satchmo, just looking at the little bird. It was a morbid routine. He just wished he knew what it meant. Was it some reference to Kate or Neal's mysterious past?

He would have asked Mozzie, but their last conversation hadn't exactly been open to further communication. He pulled on his beer again and picked up the crane again.

It had been unfolded in the lab so that the techs might dust for any prints hidden in the paper. The search had proved fruitless, only Neal's prints in the right places.

Peter had creased it again inexpertly, and between the thin crust of blood on the bottom and the rather cryptic instructions on the internet, it had turned out a little lopsided. Neal would have been offended.

He had had a week to investigate, to send out toxicology screens, blood tests, and autopsy results. Peter made sure it was done right. The envelope had been thoroughly analyzed, the gun traced back to the manufacturer, the blood and brain wiped from June's apartment.

_A gun, Neal? Why a gun? That's just not like you._

Satchmo whined at him and Peter idly scratched his ears. He looked around the apartment at Elizabeth's art books and carefully selected paintings. She suffered as well, he knew that. Neal's letter to him was in an evidence bag on the mantelpiece and there would undoubtedly be a section inside for El. But he couldn't bring himself to open it and his wife seemed to understand.

Did he want to know what Neal had to say to him? Perhaps not. He would read it. It was important that he find closure, but to read that last scrap of Neal would be to acknowledge that the mind that had written it was gone. Blown away.

El had managed to pass Mozzie letter off to him on some secret rendezvous no doubt, but June read hers in her living room, Peter sitting opposite. He had asked her what Neal had said.

She had merely looked at him with the regal calm that she had perfected. "He said goodbye."

What the hell did the bird mean?

He frowned at it, turning it over in his hands. It was Neal, there had to be a meaning.

_It could have been murder. Neal had enemies. Maybe this is a message._

No. He squashed that though every time it came up. He was trying to rationalize it. Neal killed himself. The evidence was telling him that, and he just didn't want to believe it. He was stronger than that.

Suddenly tired of staring at the scrap of ruined paper, he placed it back on the table and leaned into the couch. He should go join El in the bedroom for some much needed sleep.

He would have to go back to work tomorrow. He had taken three days off after he found Neal and today off for the cremation. There would be a new case on his desk by now and probably a request from the bureau for a psych evaluation.

_Goddamn you, Neal._

* * *

"Done." Neal slid the paper back. He had worked for nearly three hours, but not once did Campbell move or talk. Dawn was just starting to break over the city when he finished. It had become harder to work as the man in the corner had started to groan.

Campbell read over the letters. Neal could see him searching for some kind of code or reference word. There was one sheet of paper left and while the other man was reading, he carefully folded it into the familiar crane. He placed it delicately on the table. Apparently satisfied, Campbell slid the papers into an off-white envelope and directed Neal to write the names of the recipients on the front.

"Peter will never believe this, you know that. What have you got up your sleeve?" Neal asked, licking the envelope to seal it. He hadn't put it past this man to make him write a suicide not just to facilitate his murder.

"Well, I bet you were wondering where I got my new face?" Campbell smiled as if to emphasize the words with a demonstration. He turned away from Neal and motioned to the two in the back, "You and you, help me get him up."

Neal assumed they were talking about him, but they hefted the fourth covered man onto the chair. The canvas bag was whipped off the tousled head and suddenly Neal was looking at himself. That was his face, his wide blue eyes contorted in terror and pleading helplessness, his ruffled hair and quiet desperate look.

"Who is he?" Neal asked quietly.

Martin snorted, "He's you. Please keep up."

They seated him at the table where Campbell had been sitting. Neal's double couldn't seem to be able to move as Campbell worked a silenced automatic pistol into his hand. Neal looked into his own panicked eyes. He barely registered the anklet being cut away.

"No," he said quickly, trying to get out of his chair, "Don't-"

The gun shot was muffled but Neal watched, almost in slow motion as the life drained from his doubles eyes. Blood and brain matter was sprayed all over the windows, but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling above the glass. Neal's shout was muffled by a strong hand clamped over his mouth.

* * *

** Anonymous Becca**: Haha! Your review was quite unique. I feel like if I make any part of this story untrue to police procedure, you're going to roll your eyes in righteous frustration and angrily slam your index finger down on the mouse like a judge with his favorite gavel. Thanks for keeping me on my toes, but I assure you, I'll try to make this fic as logical (and therefore as painless) as possible.

**To the rest of you**: Please review... I really need the encouragement. I'm a shameless review whore.


	3. Chapter 3

_Head slumped against the metal, pale fingers splayed so very still in the stagnant pool of blood. The familiar eyes opened in a mocking shade of life. Blood soaking into the otherwise pristine breast of the suit. The tracking anklet beeping. A message- I'm free._

"Neal didn't kill himself."

Peter started violently, spilling coffee over his pants. He had been quietly enjoying his lunch break in the park. He shouldn't have been surprised. "Mozzie."

Mozzie was standing behind the bench, holding a camera up to obscure his face, looking for all the world like an awed tourist. "He faked his death," he said.

Peter sighed. "I know it's hard to accept-"

Dropping the camera back around his neck, Mozzie sat down on the park bench behind Peter and slipped a map of the subway system out of his back pack. "Listen to me suit," Mozzie seemed a little more nervous than usual, which was hard to do in the first place, "I don't know what he got himself into, but the letter he left me? It was a code."

"A code?" Peter asked, unwrapping his sandwich. He had been the one to call Mozzie and tell him that Neal was dead. He should have known that Neal's best friend wouldn't mourn like the rest of them. Peter had had to stop himself from obsessing over each morbid detail, but it seemed Mozzie had gotten stuck in denial.

He pulled a sheaf of paper out of his bag, letters and numbers and a series of lines crisscrossing mathematical equations. "It's an old one of Neal's. It's complicated enough to have taken me nearly two weeks to work through."

"So what does it say?" Peter started picking the pickles out of his sandwich. El always put pickles on his sandwiches, and she knew he hated them.

"Just a name, but it's enough for me: Martin Campbell." Mozzie glanced around again as if catch someone listening in.

"Who?"

"The big bad wolf. He's possibly the most dangerous man in the confidence business, just the fact that you've never heard his name is proof of how good he is."

"So why would Neal leave you his name?"

"I don't know, maybe Neal was in deep with him for some reason, maybe I was just supposed to pass it along to you. But this is a sign right? Are you sure that it was Neal in there?"

"It was him. He is dead. There's no doubt."

"He might have skipped town, found a way to fool you. Maybe he was running from Campbell, maybe he's faked his death and run for the hills. Or maybe it's the suits, hiding him in some kind of witness protection-"

"No." Peter shook his head, but saw that Mozzie wasn't going to let his new theories go. He hated to do this, but Mozzie didn't deserve to be forced to decode Neal's suicide note for the rest of his life. "I found him... There was a hole straight through his head and the lab confirmed with prints and DNA. It was him."

Mozzie shivered, now looking miserable. "But he wouldn't do that, suit. Even if he is dead, the letter was definitely a message meant for me. Maybe he was trying to tell us who killed him."

"We ran every test known to man. If it was murder, something would have shown up in the autopsy. If there was something wrong, it would have shown up in the lab. We are professionals, you know." Peter sighed and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, "I think you're finding what you want to find. The bureau went through the letters for three days and our best cryptography programs couldn't turn up anything."

Mozzie gave a him a look. "It was a personal cypher, it was meant for me. It's just another reason to suspect foul play. It means Neal wasn't alone when he wrote it, that someone was checking the letters for code."

Hope began to blossom a little in his chest. Maybe Mozzie had something here, maybe there was some other reason. Peter wasn't sure exactly how murder was better than suicide- after all, Neal would still be dead, but now there was something to chase, something to make pay for the death. "Why would this Martin Campbell want to Neal dead?" he asked.

"They ran a con in France about twelve years ago, when Neal was ripe for a cocky mistake." Mozzie sprinkled some more food for the pigeons, "You know Neal doesn't like to discuss his past, but I know that it ended badly. He turned up pretty black and blue with his backside not a little singed."

"Running from Campbell?"

"I have no idea, but if he was holding a grudge, Neal would have been dead a long time ago."

The familiar thrum of adrenaline was starting to pump through him. Neal had left a clue, maybe this wasn't his fault. He was already planning in his head, where to look, how to find the next part of the puzzle.

_It won't bring him back._

But he could damn well do some justice. "What was the cypher? Do you think my letter has the same message?"

"The message was meant for me. I think there's probably a more suit-specific code for you but if you let me take a look at your letter and June's, maybe I can find more."

Peter looked out to the park, all the people walking dogs, eating, laughing. Could there be someone watching them? "Okay, let me look through the letter. How can I contact you?"

"Mrs. Suit has one of my emails."

"El?"

"We swap recipes." He started to get up.

Peter stood as well, stepping quickly to intercept Mozzie, "Wait!"

"What?" The little man glanced around the park nervously.

Peter dug into his pocket for the little paper bird. He unfolded the wings and held it out for Mozzie's inspection, "I've been meaning to ask you something, but I didn't know how to get hold of you. What does this mean? Neal left it when he..."

Mozzie took it gingerly and inspected the rough folds.

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "but I'll see what I can turn up. If I were you I'd start looking into your lab. If they didn't find anything strange, then Campbell is even better than they say, or one of your suits has sprung a leak."

* * *

Neal was set up in style. Campbell at least seemed to be making an effort, but despite the silk sheets and new suits Neal wasn't allowed out of the building. He still hadn't been told much about the score, though by the amount of money being spent on keeping him happy, whatever was at the end of the rainbow was a lot shinier than gold.

He felt off balance without the anklet. It felt like nothing was keeping him grounded anymore. Campbell had promised that once this score was over, he could get him a new identity, citizenship to any country he could name, and a first class ticket to the paradise of his choice. A new face was offered as well, but Neal, seeing the pain pills that Campbell seemed to chug for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, couldn't bring himself to agree.

The rest would have been a tantalizing offer if Neal believed he would live one second past whatever role Campbell had cooked up for him. Once this was over, Campbell would kill him without hesitation. Loose ends were something the man could live with, but a loose end with ties to the FBI?

No, Neal had to get out, and get out fast. He tread a thin line already, trying to keep Martin from realizing Neal knew his fate. He could only imagine what was happening in the bureau.

They would know by now that the body in the apartment wasn't his. They would have figured out the codes and they were out looking for him, following the leads. He had to believe it, but he couldn't count on it. He had always worked his escapes on the basis that no one else was coming to bail him out.

He had to get out as quickly as possible, but his exits were limited if existent at all. Bribery wouldn't work, the impassive guard that stayed with him all day didn't speak to him past the occasional grunt when he asked for food. At least the view told him where he was in the city. They were keeping him surprisingly close to the FBI headquarters, which was perhaps why they were so paranoid about letting him out of the apartment. He wondered whether he was in his two mile radius.

So he had no choice but to wait: to plan and re-plan, gather information through observation and wait for the mistake that could get him his freedom. He just wished he could get a message to Peter.

He leaned against the window, letting the dizzying height take him through the familiar streets. He felt more trapped than he had when he had been in prison.

Maybe because prison had more relaxed security.

* * *

I've had a lot of people guessing as to what is going on/how the clues I've left are going to come together. I'd rather you sent me a PM with your guesses than reviewing with spoilers. I appreciate the excitement this has caused, but I will have to insist on deleting reviews that might detract from further chapters.

Otherwise please leave me a review and tell me how I'm doing... because I live for reviews.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter returned to work, his head buzzing with nervous energy. He still had six hours before he could get back to letter, but if Mozzie was right, there was more than a code to crack. The photos that the police had taken in Neal's apartment were on file and he examined them closely, trying to beat back the memory of actually being there.

In the end he found nothing and he sat back, rubbing his forehead in frustration. No prints, no fibers, no footprints or objects out of place. Just the letters and that damned bird. Maybe it was something to help decode the letter?

He called Diana in and asked her to lead the investigation in the new case. She had nodded, no pity in her expression, but dammit if he couldn't _feel _it in the way she closed the door quietly as she left. He couldn't have the FBI in on this, if Mozzie was right and there was someone on the inside interfering, then the mess could cost him his job.

He printed the photographs and medical report. Surely no one would think that was strange, he had worked with Caffrey for years, of course he would start a file on him. It was exactly the kind of morbid obsession he could have fallen into.

_Maybe you are._

He took his coat and the still warm documents and left headquarters.

The morgue where Caffrey had undergone the tests wasn't far and it was heavily connected with the bureau. He was let in with near to no questions. And he was met in the coroner's office by a young man.

"Charles McCullem." He said, extending a hand.

Peter checked the ID badge McCullem wore. "It doesn't say that on the door." He observed dryly.

"Oh," he looked a bit flustered, "Yes, that would be Peter Lewis. You said you requested the doctor who did Neal Caffrey's autopsy?"

"Yes. I just have a few questions."

"Well you would be looking for Dr. Lewis, but he passed away last week and I'm afraid the samples he kept were... ah..." he looked nervously down at the desk, "compromised."

"Compromised how?" Peter asked carefully.

"They were being kept in the lab after all the paperwork came back from the tests they went through. We usually send them out to a facility in Michigan for storage, but the original biopsy samples were exposed to ammonia. It wasn't just the Caffrey samples. Dr. Lewis was retiring next week and he was just relabeling his cases for his replacement."

"How did ammonia get into the evidence?"

"The electricity to to that wing was cut for construction, the generators were supposed to kick in, but we use ammonia refrigeration for some of the counter chemicals. The heat managed to make a dent in the- it's all here." He pushed a folder over to Peter.

Peter stared at it for a moment, trying to will his frustration down to a manageable level. "So you have nothing?" He asked slowly.

"It wasn't just this case, we lost a lot of evidence. To be honest, Agent Burke, it's been absolute hell around here." He looked on the verge of tears.

"Alright. Fine, but you still have the x-rays, scans, and photographs, right?"

"Our backups were corrupted by-"

Peter held up a hand, "I'm going to stop you there. I'm sure that's in the report as well. Do you in fact have anything at all?"

Cowed, Dr. McCullem passed a single chart over. "We have Dr. Lewis's final report. It's a detailed compilation and analysis of all findings. We also have the audio file he saved, we can send it to your office."

"I'll take it now, before someone's dog eats it." Peter glanced over the report. The words were gibberish, he would need a dictionary and search engine to dig any meaning out of it. "But take a look at these photos. Do you see anything unusual?"

He dug the photos out of the folder and spread them out on the desk, facing the young doctor. McCullem picked up a close up of Neal's hand. "That's strange."

"What?" Peter sat forward eagerly, trying to see what the doctor was looking at.

"Doctor Lewis marked this as a clean cut suicide. But look here," he pointed to a faint line on the index finger. To Peter it looked like a pressure line. "That's a micro abrasion on his left knuckle."

"Good." Peter tugged the photograph out of the man's hand. And the realized he still had no idea what was happening, "What does that mean?"

"It means someone helped him pull the trigger."

* * *

"What are we selling him?" Neal asked, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. Campbell was leaning against the wall, watching him with a slight smile on his face. There was a man waiting in the bar, looking nervous and excited.

He was a mark ready for the picking if Neal had ever seen one.

"We're selling him a job," Campbell said swaying back to his feet and digging his hands into his pockets. When he was hunched like that, Neal could almost see the man he used to be. After living with him for nearly a month now, he could see the little inconsistencies, the lines where the facial features didn't _exactly_ match the pull of the muscle groups around them.

It was disconcerting.

"A job? What job?" Neal asked. He had been with Campbell for all this time and the man still hadn't told him the 'master plan'.

"Your job. His name is Leonard Crims. Small town college professor. He's got a hungry wife, five kids, enough debt to rival his arrogance, and most importantly: he's got an art degree."

They were nearing the bar now and Neal put on his best smile, setting his hat back on his head. "So what job are we selling him?"

"Forgery. He's rubbish, but you know," he grinned widely, and there again was the delay as the skin bunched strangely at his jaw. "beauty is the eye of the beholder and all that. This is the fall guy."

"This is starting to sound like a familiar story."

"Oh Caffrey, you didn't have any of that and you are still the best and fastest forger I have ever seen. Paris was a mistake, I never should have let you go."

Neal shook his head, they were nearly at the bar now, "So what am I forging?"

"The shadows of a conspiracy. I want you to forge an age of the world's lies and all the fuses to set them off."

* * *

Neal's note to Peter should be in the next chapter, so stay tuned!

_Okay, to be honest, I may have gone a bit overboard on explanation in this chapter, but you guys are intimidating. BTW if any of you want, I can post a link to a website that has all the letters and the crane so you can try and figure the codes/clues out yourself. But I have no idea whether any of you would be interested. If you are, leave a review with a request or send me an email._


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